When at last she felt free of the persistent gaze of her instructor and the critical eyes of her classmates, she managed to calm down a bit. She threw a furtive look at the copies of notes the instructor had prepared and left on the chairs for the students. His brief bio confirmed the American origins. But his surname was Polish. Kaczynski. “Hmm, David Kaczynski… Polish parents, probably...” was her first thought.
At the time, the ministry had no resources to train all the staff with real computers, nor any native Polish speaker to deliver the training. So the poor American friend had to present a river of slides showing all the various software functions together with operating instructions, in the hope that the seminar participants would understand enough to carry their knowledge back to share with their colleagues.
As quietly as she could, Kasja arranged the notes on the small table in front of her and drew a small notepad from her handbag. She concentrated wholly on the lecture and began writing notes, recording even the minutest details as her icy hands began to thaw slowly from the warmth in the room created by accumulated padded bodies. She wrote ceaselessly, almost manically, in her little book, trying to absorb everything possible from the seminar, while her attention was sabotaged by the smiling American for the next six hours.
Without realising it, by the conclusion of the class, she had filled her temporary notebook with a whole volume of jottings about using the new software. Her hand and wrist were tingling and numb with writer’s cramp. She felt quite pleased with herself for understanding most of it, but still disappointed in her English and wished it were better. She had studied the language for six whole years at school and at the University School of Economics at Wroclaw. But she had never had the chance to speak it with anyone and though she understood quite well what had been presented, accent notwithstanding, she was sure that she would not dare utter a word of conversation in English. At least at first.
Throughout the seminar, even when she tried, she had struggled to take her eyes off him. His smile, his openhearted manner and behaviour had captivated her, as though an invisible power had bewitched her... And he, he had missed no chance to smile at her, stealing glances throughout the day. She felt a strange sense of recognition, as though this foreigner from the other side of the world had always been familiar to her. Which was not possible. Of course not.
At five in the afternoon, when the American closed the session and said a polite good evening, it seemed as though only a few seconds had passed since she had so awkwardly first entered the room. With his last few words of farewell, she was overtaken by a sudden inexplicable sadness. She would soon have to leave him forever and was unlikely ever to see him again. She suppressed a deep sigh. Hastily, and not so quietly, she gathered her things and put on her coat.
As she abstractedly joined the queue at the door, she felt someone touch her lightly on the shoulder. Startled, she turned. The American was there, just one step behind her, beaming at her with his merry smile.
“Could you wait for me a minute? I would like to ask you about a case,” he said in the same firm voice and accent and his funny broken Polish, without ever losing his friendly tone and big grin. For no reason at all, Kasja felt a great relief. A spark of warmth lit up deep inside her. A spectator of herself, she observed helplessly that it grew and swelled in seconds, taking on the dimensions of a forest fire. And helplessly, she felt the fire flare out of control up into her throat, even more inside her head, leaving an unmistakable trail on her crimson face. She could feel her cheeks burning.
“Yes, of course,” she said and a fleeting smile escaped her. The way the American spoke Polish was so funny! She stopped and waited uncomfortably in a corner of the long narrow hall. When the last of her classmates had left the room, she looked at him doubtfully. She felt puzzled, curious about what case he could possibly mean, yet at the same time thrilled that he had asked her to wait.
“What can he want from me?” she wondered, and turned to watch him as he hastily gathered up his papers and slides. He grabbed his briefcase and joined her at the door, approaching with his usual warm smile.
“I would like us to get to know each other better,” he said in English. “My name’s David. Would you like – do you have time to go for a coffee or a drink? What do you say? Kasja?” With transatlantic informality, he was already using her first name and looking her right in the eyes. His American style, his straightforward approach startled and confused her for a moment. Her words got scrambled as soon as she tried to reply in English; she stumbled through one or two syllables that sounded like English but were as mixed up as his Polish, and she felt completely stupid. She tried to pull herself together. Finally, she decided to answer him in Polish as she vainly tried to evade the intent gaze that transfixed her.
“Um… well... yes. Certainly... gladly,” she stammered. “I don’t have much time... the last train for Katowice leaves at six-thirty, in about an hour,” she ended, as slowly as she could so the stranger would understand. Even as she was speaking, she realised that she could not free herself from those dark green eyes. She hurried to tear her gaze away, embarrassed by her own almost shameless behaviour. “You understand, yes? You understand Polish, don’t you?” She asked him again to be sure he had understood her.
“I understand what you’re saying pretty well, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak to you in English. You can answer me in Polish. My Polish needs a lot more practice if it’s going to improve… I wanted to learn, and I used to speak a little to my father back in Cincinnati. He was Polish, but he died when I was just a kid, so I don’t remember very much. He always insisted I was a blockhead in foreign languages, like all born Americans. Maybe he was right!” he grinned. “Anyway, you speak your language and I’ll answer in mine and so we’ll understand each other better! Agreed?” He looked down at her and his face became even brighter. She responded with a shy smile of her own and nodded her head.
A few minutes later, they were sitting opposite each other, ensconced in ancient armchairs at the back of a small semi-basement café, protected from the cold, and holding steaming cups from which issued the strong aroma of coffee. The Anglo-Polish conversation, that began a little awkwardly and not altogether fluently, soon developed into a friendly, almost intimate exchange between two people. Even though they had just met, it was as though they had known each other for years. They were both impelled to share everything about themselves, to open their hearts, to recount their worries and desires, to share their realities. And they both had the same feeling of urgency -– that there wasn’t enough time to say it all. So rather desperately, alternating sentences in both languages and throwing anxious looks at the clock, it seemed hopeless. It would take an eternity to share all they wanted to, let alone an hour. They realised, finally, that neither had taken as much as a sip of the drinks now standing chilled and flavourless in their cups.
At precisely six thirty-three, they rushed breathlessly into the railway station and towards Platform Six from which her train would depart. Kasja looked with clenched heart at the carriage door open before her, and David tenderly took her arm and pulled her to him. Her body leapt into his clasp.
“I want very much to see you again,” he said, his blazing desire for her and her presence spilling into his face and words. The heat of his breath formed a cloud around each syllable which quickly dissipated into the arctic atmosphere of the station. “I’ll be here till the end of the week, doing the same seminar three times to other ministry people. In the hotel Moskva in the central square, Szepanska Street. We have to meet again. Can’t we?” he asked her, his smile seemingly overcome by his urgency. Before she could answer, his lips were closing on hers in a hurried but intense kiss. She did not resist but responded with increasing fervour.
As they separated she stroked gently his cheek. “I shall try find you at hotel tomorrow, David. Telephone night-time eight-and-a-half,” she confirmed in her broken English, calling him by his name for the first time, her face turning brig
ht red again. With a quick hop, she was in the carriage. She turned and gazed at him for a second with eyes overflowing with feeling, and then vanished into the wreck of a carriage, half empty by that time of the evening. She searched hastily for a window seat as the train had already begun to groan into action and its engine was chugging. Her face was glued to the grimy window pane as the train gained speed and the American was drawn out of sight.
When the train had vanished into the darkness, David Kaczynski left the station and started walking through the inhospitable night, meandering towards his hotel across unknown and badly-lit streets. He wandered drunk with love, unaware of the cold winter misery and the dark icy fog that wrapped the city in a thick veil. That evening he had discovered something that had him almost floating through the chill atmosphere, wrapped in a heady warmth, giving wings to his feet so tired from standing through the whole long day. But what a day! A day when, out of the blue, everything had changed. Something had lit a bright flame in him, a flame so strong that nothing could extinguish it. Deep inside, he recognised that this lovely, shy Polish girl with her crystal blue eyes and sweet little face, would not be a mere business acquaintance.
It was perfectly clear in his mind and he had no doubt whatsoever that they would be together again soon, and not just once. He could still hear her voice say “at eight-and-a-half tomorrow night”...
CHAPTER SIX
First Stop: Roodebeek – Keith
The heavy, solid iron gates to St. Stephen’s Green had been freshly painted for the holidays but firmly locked since sunset. All Dublin was dressed up for the Christmas season. Across from the park, Grafton Street boasted a gigantic Christmas tree, blazing with hundreds of winking coloured lights. It was Keith’s favourite time of year once more: when the whole city centre of Dublin was aglitter with festive decorations, a fairy princess decked out in her brilliant finery. It was a time to forget the everyday and revel in shiny wrappings, to be a carefree child again.
But Keith was not feeling a bit carefree. He paced back and forth in front of the gate, now stopping motionless and lost in thought, then nervously resuming his pacing. The illuminated metal clock hanging on the shopping mall opposite showed eleven minutes before eight. It had only moved two minutes and he thought he must have paced a mile already. Gusts of chilly wind were pounding him mercilessly; occasional passers-by crossed the pavement running for shelter from the icy air. Some young people, two youths and a girl wrapped in a flapping cloak, defied the arctic cold, waiting for their other halves to appear.
Nine minutes still to go. The hands of that damn clock were slowing down, he was sure of it. He wasn’t aware of the sharp cold, as he was consumed by a forest fire of impatience. She was always on time. But she wouldn’t be here until the time of their appointment and there were still thirteen minutes to go.
He felt as if he was walking on a bed of burning sizzling nails. His hand groped in his pocket: yes, it was safe. This year, there was a bright shiny new reason to celebrate these holidays. Everything had changed. He eagerly awaited Christmas and New Year’s Day with the anticipation of a little child.
Eight months ago, he had met Maeve Fitzgerald, a tall blonde Irish beauty who had sent his heart rocketing in his chest as no one had ever done before. He had known other girls, but this one was unique. Not only were her slender form, long white legs and firm round breasts – not so large as to attract vulgar attention – a delight to the male eye, but they were combined with innate modesty, strength, amazing self-knowledge, and natural courtesy. He had found all this in a woman with intelligence at least to match his own. Everything about her was in harmony, from her curves to the symmetries of her personality and gentle wisdom. And she had a special gift of serenely meeting life’s challenges with calm amusement. With Maeve it was impossible not to enjoy life as it came along.
She had stood out like a star among the motley throng of female students following the post-graduate programme in economic policy and international relations at Trinity College. It was her eyes first, wide and alert, an amazing blue. Those eyes, so sparkling and kind, had become a source of life and energy for him. Maeve had her own way of standing out from the crowd; low-key, natural, authentic. She did not seek attention yet attracted it with her inner glow, making the simplest movements and clothes seem elegant. She had already taken her first degree in finance and held a responsible job in the exports division of Allied Irish Banks, although her father, a prosperous wine merchant with a chain of shops all over the UK, wanted her to train for the family business. But Maeve was determined to stand on her own two feet – size five-and-a-half – delicate and strong, like her.
He had noticed her in passing in the hallways and began to, not exactly stalk her, but make himself available where she happened to be headed. And one day it happened; he caught sight of her heading for the cafeteria and managed to ease into the coffee queue right in front of her, and in his moment of triumph, spilt his coffee all over the counter and her shoes. Startled, she blinked at him with those electric eyes, and laughed. “Oops!” She wasn’t even annoyed.
That was the moment he became her slave. Stammering and apologising, he grabbed napkins and his handkerchief and tried to wipe up the mess. “Never mind,” she said, amused. “No harm done.”
“You’re wrong! That wasn’t the way I wanted to meet you. I would have preferred to sweep you off your feet with… irresistible temptations, or fabulous jewels… or… something…!” He felt as clumsy as an adolescent, and yet she made it all smooth and funny and then they were sharing a table, and he knew he wanted to share tables with her for the rest of his life. He noticed that she was leaving a wet left footprint all across the floor, so as soon as she was seated, he knelt in front of her to wipe coffee from her slender nylon-clad foot and tried to dry her shoe. “Wasn’t it lucky I wore the black ones!” she laughed.
Eight months later, after discussing everything under the sun from horror films to European political economy, from Madonna to Mozart and all the other things that lovers talk about, they had both understood that they had found their destiny. He still had that coffee-stained handkerchief. He still could not quite believe that she shared his feelings.
Eight and a half minutes to go! The clock had jumped while he was remembering.
This Christmas holiday, the first of the lifetime they would share, they decided that they must go their separate ways and break the news to their families. A thousand vows were made, as Keith arranged to visit his elder brother in Greece and tell him the news, while she would break it gently to her parents who would visit her in Dublin.
So, two days before this wrenching separation, Keith had gone on a shopping spree at the jewellers with serious qualms and near-panic to find an engagement ring. After agonising searches and frequent changes of mind, he finally settled on a narrow white gold band with a brilliant white diamond surrounded by a crown of little sparklers in a carved setting. He was – almost -– sure the time was right for the official proposal of marriage. The place and time, here and now. Almost. This night, just before the necessary separation. Hence his burning impatience in front of the gate of St Stephen’s Green.
“Five more minutes”, he thought, and chuckled to himself. Only five, no, four and a half minutes, and his appointment with Maeve. She was always prompt but he had been here twenty minutes early, at the familiar spot in front of the imposing gate where they always met.
Still four minutes. The hands of the clock must have mysteriously stopped dead. They certainly weren’t moving. The sharp December air had no effect on his flaming impatience; he was drowning in continuous waves of it. Eyes glued to the clock – there! The minute hand had moved at last! Three minutes.
Two minutes to eight... Oh, God. Maybe she wouldn’t come. Maybe she had changed her mind. He could not think. And suddenly there was her long-legged shape, waving as she crossed at the traffic lights and came towards him, trailing little clouds of breath from her warm smile into the bitter cold air. Keit
h seized her in his arms and held her close. He kissed her tenderly and passionately, and closely-linked, they headed towards Baggot Street, where Keith had reserved a table in a small romantic Italian restaurant tucked away in a narrow passage. Maeve knew this restaurant very well. She remembered the last time they were there a few months before, on their first real date. With its warm atmosphere, red candles everywhere and the checked red-and-white tablecloths on the twelve tables, Il Sole was becoming a favourite.
It was past eleven when they finished their dinner. Keith suggested a stroll in the colourful city centre. She smiled, looked at him questioningly. “Sounds very romantic,” she said, “Perhaps a teeny bit cold? Won’t we freeze?” He was praying that he had not given away his planned surprise. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you get cold. I’ll wrap you in my arms and keep you warm!” he answered, with a silly grin he couldn’t turn off. Keith signalled to their waitress for the bill, discreetly lowering one eyelid. In a moment, the waitress, previously carefully briefed, presented them ceremonially with a silver tray containing the bill – and a sweating bottle of Dom Perignon in a small bucket of ice, two crystal glasses and a red rose resting between them. A small, closed, crimson velvet box sat discreetly on the tray, and tucked into a delicate crystal vase was a tiny sparkling firework. Maeve was entranced. She could not say a word. Her face was all surprise, excitement and pleasure; her eyes reflected the colours of the sparkler and Keith felt rewarded. Now she could not detach her gaze from the deep red velvet box. The waitress tactfully withdrew, though not without a few curious backward looks.
Keith tenderly took her hands in his. “Maeve Fitzgerald,” he began in a rather shaky voice. He had to stop and clear his throat. He stole a glance around to see if other patrons had noticed them. To his horror, they had. They were surrounded by an interested audience. Attracted by the sparklers and the champagne, several grinning diners had turned their chairs to enjoy the scene. “I was going to go on my knees to say this, but –”
The Next Stop Page 6